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shadow_vector2012-08-12 11:17 am
Practice and Math
IDW/AHM
Drift/Perceptor
sticky, weird take on 'gunplay'
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xxsomeoneelsexx 's prompt 'gunkink' for the fluffathon! :DInhale. Exhale. Hold. Hold. Hold. Pull.
The round burst from the barrel with a flash, the stock jamming against his shoulder. It was a comfortable jolt, familiar, soothing.
And deadly. He shouldn’t look, but this was practice after all, and looking was half the point. He lifted his optics, squinting down the line to the target. He nodded.
“Pretty good at that,” a voice said, behind him.
He flinched, turning onto his shoulder. Drift was seated behind him, ankles crossed, grinning, as though he’d been there for cycles.
He probably had.
He seemed to fit there, somehow, the bright green of the grass vivid against his white armor, sunlight kissing the angles of his frame. While Perceptor lay, belly on the ground, red and black, like a patch of the ugly detritus of war.
“Practice,” Perceptor said. “And math.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Drift said, rolling forward onto his knees. “You have to have a feel for it.”
“Science,” Perceptor said. “Simply math, calculations, that’s all.” That was why he had chosen it. In the end, in the beginning, he’d known he’d never be Springer or Roadbuster or any of the other Wreckers. He didn’t have that talent for violence in him, that fire in the fuel line that made combat feel bright and alive and powerful, the way he’d heard the others describe it. The way Drift, even, had described it. No, he’d always be on the fringe, on the edges. But he could make that useful, make that count.
Drift shook his head. “No. It’s more than just math.” The hand reached Perceptor’s outstretched ankle, and Drift began slithering up Perceptor’s prone form, pausing to plant gentle kisses at gaps in his armor—behind his knees, where his thighs joined his pelvic frame, the little divot at his waist, until he lay on top of Perceptor, his weight solid and comforting, hands flanking Perceptor’s arms.
“What are you doing?” It seemed a valid question.
“Nothing,” Drift said, wriggling himself closer against Perceptor. “Take your next shot.”
“Drift?”
“A good sniper can avoid distractions,” Drift said tartly, leaning forward to nip Perceptor’s audio. “Now. Next shot.”
Perceptor sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to win this one. Not that he ever did.
He turned back, lining up the next shot, cycling his vents again, pulling the trigger.
“Hmm. A little high. Anticipating trigger pull,” Drift whispered in his audio, hand sleeking down Perceptor’s rib strut.
Perceptor huffed.
Another laugh, tickling against him. “No excuses now, Perceptor. Just aim.”
What else could he do? He shifted his position, wiggling his hips flatter against the grass, feeling the green blades tickle at his sides, trying to ignore the way Drift resettled on top of him, the way the one hand sought the opportunity to creep between his legs.
The second shot was slightly better, Drift purring approval against his backframe. “Again.” This time, his fingers slipped in Perceptor’s interface hatch, circling around the valve cover.
Perceptor’s ventilations hitched, before he forced himself steady. Drift’s hand teased at the thin metal of his valve cover, sending spirals of pleasure through his net. He felt his hips squirm against the ground, before he braced himself, forcing his attention forward.
Another shot, and this time, he felt Drift’s pelvic span jolt against his thigh.
“You’re enjoying this,” he whispered into the rifle’s stock.
“Can’t I?” Drift murmured, grinding his pelvic span against Perceptor’s thigh, his fingers finally teasing the valve cover aside. “I like good shooting.” One finger teased the rim of Perceptor’s valve. “Now. Shoot.”
He settled in, finding another target, to the right, waiting, letting his awareness sink into his body, his hand on the barrel, the cool metal of the scope on his cheek, the warmth of Drift’s body against his back, the swirling circles around the rim of his valve. And the target.
The shot cracked in the air, Drift nipping at his shoulder, engine thrumming against him. Two fingers spiraled closer, probing into the valve. Perceptor heard the soft intake of air as Drift’s fingers encountered the eager wetness in the valve, the fingers curling in gently.
“Next shot.” Drift’s voice was husky, and Perceptor could feel the heat of Drift’s interface hatch against the back of his thigh.
“Drift.” His own voice was raw. “What….,”
“Shhhh,” Drift whispered, “training.”
“This isn’t—“
“It is.” A squirm forward, and Perceptor felt Drift’s mouth on his cheek. “It’s all about energy, Perceptor. Unifying what you have, what you are, pushing that into every motion.” The fingers stroked along his valve lining. “Even this. It’s not about fighting distractions, it’s about opening to them, using them.” A flash of his blue optics, before he wriggled back, dragging his interface hatch over Perceptor’s thigh.
“You don’t want…?”
“Oh, I do.” A soft chuckle. “But later.” Another laugh. “If you get this next shot, let’s say.”
“What if?”
A purr behind him, the body sinuous against his back frame. “If you get the next shot, the right way, I’ll let you do anything you want to me.”
“Really.”
Another purr, the vibrations against him sending ripples of desire, want through him, his mind for a moment boggling with thoughts…what he would do to Drift.
“But first,” Drift said, his weight shifting over Perceptor’s shoulders, and suddenly Perceptor gasped at the heat of a gloss circing his scope, “you have to make the shot.”
He vented, hard, two, three times, feeling the air circulate through his systems, sweeping through the skirling waves of desire. His whole body seemed alive and electric, and the gun in his hands seemed to pick up the charge, almost as if it was a part of him. And he suddenly wasn’t counting steps anymore, or paying attention to the string of calculations on his reticle HUD, but waiting…for the target to be ready. It was strange, it made no sense, but it’s what he felt, and his finger seemed to curl over the trigger, waiting not for a cue but an invitation.
The shot wasn’t a surprise this time, the way it usually was, the way Kup had told him it would always be, but something he knew would happen, knew would spiral through the air, sure and lethal. He didn’t have to look up to see if it hit: he could feel it hit.
Drift sighed atop him, his body a delicious weight on Perceptor’s, his fingers stilling in the valve. He didn’t need to say anything, this time. Perceptor gave an echoing sigh, releasing his finger from the trigger, pushing his weight up under Drift’s body. Drift let himself roll off Perceptor’s side, onto the grass beside him, arms already moving to embrace him. “You win,” Drift said, and the smile on his face, drowsy and aroused, and the heat rising from his frame, licked against Perceptor’s body. “But I told you, more to it than practice and math.”
Perceptor felt a grin stretch his mouthplates, kindling from Drift’s. “More than practice and math to this, too,” he said, sliding a thigh between Drift’s.
“Really?” The blue optics glittered, before shuttering demurely under the fierce kiss he could feel was coming. "Because I’m always up for more practice.”
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